


I Want Candy

by giggy_milkovich



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkward Flirting, Based on a Tumblr Post, Fluff, I wrote this on a boat this morning, M/M, a quick baseball AU, baseball player!ian, waterboy!mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:17:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3716569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giggy_milkovich/pseuds/giggy_milkovich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the tumblr prompt: “mY CHIPS WOULDN’T COME OUT THE VENDING MACHINE AND I GOT MAD AND TRIED TO GRAB IT BUT NOW MY HAND’S STUCK AND PLS STOP LAUGHING AT ME THIS IS V SERIOUS IM GOIG TO CRy” au</p><p>I just found this prompt too cute not to try out. Plus we need some cute right about now. I'm thinking S1 Ian/Mickey ages, btw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want Candy

Mickey wasn’t the type to wander around the halls after class let out, unless he was helping Coach Fletcher with the baseball team. The coach was awful at basic math and Mickey didn’t mind punching in a few numbers for batting averages or keeping score at games now and again to help the man out; he also didn’t mind watching the players practice, especially the toned Gallagher kid on second base. Mickey knew the guy’s movements by heart: the way his bicep muscles stretched and curled as he threw the ball back to the pitcher’s mound; the way his back leaned slightly forward as he thrust down into squat position to catch a low ball, his butt hovering above the base; the way his Adam’s apple bobbled against his neck as he drank from the canteen, his cheeks rosy from the heat and littered with freckles. Long after he was finished tallying hits, Mickey would lounge in the dugout, squinting his eyes up into the hazy afternoon sun and watching the rays strike against #4’s fiery strands.

On one particular April afternoon, the team practiced sliding drills as Mickey scribbled notes in his copy of  _Fight Club_ for a paper due the following day. He lifted his head off the pages every few minutes, listening out for the scrape of polyester against earth, watching as the players jumped up red and caked in dirt. Mickey chewed the tip of his pencil and bent the metal eraser tip when Ian hopped up off the ground, brushing himself off as his teammates slapped his ass playfully. Blame adolescent hormones or the tight white pants that framed the boy’s butt perfectly, but Mickey wished he could do the same.

“Ey Milkovich! Go refill the water, we’re runnnin’ low!” Coach hollered from across the field. 

Mickey shot up, frazzled by the sudden outburst, and knocked his book on the ground before grabbing the water cooler and walking back over to the main building. He shuffled through the empty halls, dragging the nearly empty cooler behind him as he made his way past the locker room where the big sink and ice machine resided. As the cooler filled, Mickey’s stomach gurgled angrily under the t-shirt he’d swiped from lost and found; he forgot he’d skipped lunch earlier that day in order to finish working on an extra assignment. The rumbling continued as he quickly dragged the cooler beside him and trudged over to the vending machine across the hallway. He fished two crumpled dollar bills from his back pocket and pushed them through the slot as the metal box whirred to life. He typed in the code for the Snickers bars on the bottom shelf and waited as the wire coil spun and brought the candy forward before stopping short. 

Mickey stood dumbfounded staring at the candy stuck mere inches away from the edge. He shook the machine, banging against the hard glass and cursing under his breath. 

Before Mickey could think better of it, he got on his knees and slid his arm through the opening, pushing up as far as he could to grab his snack. Unfortunately, he was known for his short limbs and was a good three inches off from the stupid bar. He tried to wriggle himself back out of the machine, only to realize his plan had backfired. He was stuck. In a snack machine. Mickey Milkovich was stuck in a snack machine. 

“Holy fuck, you’ve gotta be shitting me,” Mickey cursed, shaking his arm and pushing back against the machine. “Fuck.” 

As he continued to rattle against the glass, twisting his arm as best he could, he heard the sound of cleats in the locker room next door and the faint mumbling of “see you later”—or was it “be back later”? He couldn't hear over his heart pounding under his skin as the footsteps grew closer. 

“What the…are you _stuck_?”

Mickey felt the boy’s presence before he even said the words. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear his cheeks burst into flames. “I—I—it was just—and I— _what does it fucking look like?_ ” he finally spat, turn his body around to face the tall boy looming over him. 

“Whoa, calm down, Just asking. Jesus…I didn’t think people actually got stuck these things,” Ian cackled, holding in but eventually breaking out into a full belly laugh. “What’d you even try to get?” He stepped closer, leaning over to look down into the glass.

“Snickers.”

“Seriously? I mean at least go for the Kit-Kat if you’re gonna get stuck.” 

Mickey raised his eyebrows, trailing his eyes up and down the boy's body. “Who the fuck gets stuck over a Kit-Kat?” 

“Says the guy who got stuck over a Snickers,” Ian smirked. 

Mickey rolled his eyes at the dig. “It’s a fucking Snickers bar! No one turns down a Snickers.” 

“Whatever, just...” Ian bent down, balancing on one knee. He wrapped his hand around Mickey’s bicep. The boy instantly flexed under the contact. “Can you move it?” 

Mickey shook his forearm from within the machine, wiggling his tatted fingers. “Yeah, but my elbow’s stuck.” 

“Hm. Here, sit up and I’ll try to pull you out.” Ian stood back up, brushing off the dirt from his hands and pants before stepping behind Mickey and grabbing him underneath his armpits, brushing up against his bare skin. 

Mickey flinched forward. “Ay, whoa,  _what the fuck?!_ ”

“Calm down, I’m not feeling you up. Now sit up and let me help you before Coach comes looking for us.” 

Mickey huffed, pushing up onto his knees with his free arm. He silently thought to himself just how much he wouldn’t actually mind the redhead feeling him up.  

Ian grabbed again, pressing firm hands into Mickey’s chest. His palms were rough but warm against his ratty black tank. “On my go, ‘k? One…two…GO!” 

He stepped back and lifted up, digging his cleats into the hard ground as he pulled Mickey's torso towards him. "Is it loosening?" Ian grunted, his face buried in dark hair.

"Ow ow, _shit_! Just...pull harder!" He thrusted once more before Mickey's arm scraped against the edge of the opening and released with a thump, the machine rocking back in place. He fell back into Ian's chest, sending them both crashing to the floor. 

 

Mickey took in heavy breaths, Ian's arms still clenched around his chest, before breaking loose and crawling forward. He looked down at his arm - still intact but bruised at the joint and badly scratched where it had dragged against the bottom. 

"You good?" Ian still lay behind him, his arms resting on his chest as he caught his breath.

"Fine. I'm free, I'm good." He held onto the side of the vending machine as he knelt and stuck his hand back in. 

Ian squinted his eyes watching the scene before him, incredulous. "Are you kidding me?" 

Mickey turned his head to meet the judging eyes. "What? I said I like Snickers." He pulled out the candy bar, peeling back the wrapper. 

"After all that..." Ian shook his head, smiling at the kid's efforts.

"Hell yeah, 'after all that'."

Ian waved his hand. "Lemme try a piece, then." 

"Try a piec—wait, you've never had a Snickers?!" he said stunned.

"Nah. Not usually a nuts guy." He let out a small giggle under his breath, catching himself on his own joke. 

"What?"

"Huh? Nothing." Ian stared up, green eyes soft yet piercing through Mickey's ice blue. "Oh c'mon, you owe me. Just gimme a bite."

"Aren't you not supposed to take candy from strangers and shit?"

"You come to every practice, you're at every game...and I saw you checking me out out there. Mickey Milkovich, right? 

Mickey looked down at his feet, twisting the waxy paper in his hands. "Yeah. And nobody's checking out your sorry ass—" 

"Ian." He extended his hand forward. 

Mickey scoffed but reached down, taking the larger hand in his own and lifting Ian to his feet. The boy stood a few inches taller than him and his hair was matted where his helmet had been.

As he caught his balance, Ian rocked back into Mickey's chest, grabbing his shoulder for leverage. "Sorry," he said, noticeably flustered as his cheeks grew red. "I, uh, bad reflexes I guess."

Mickey chuckled. "Uh-huh. Says the star hitter." They stood awkwardly, sharing small smiles and hesitant to break the tension.

While Mickey was still distracted, Ian snatched the candy bar from his fingers, pulling back the wrapper and taking a bite. "Hm...sweet." 

Mickey's face softened, his lips upturned as he watched him chew. "I like 'em sweet." 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://www.thedailygiggy.tumblr.com)


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